


Something Good Can Work

by utsu



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pining, Self Confidence Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6921997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utsu/pseuds/utsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And if he looks back to Carl a few times, he tells himself it’s because his hands are soft enough to draw the attention regardless of his own overwhelming confusion with the man. </p><p>And if he thinks about those soft hands in a different way, without ice or sticks or skates, and how they might feel in his hands, well. </p><p>Phil is still working on being honest with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Good Can Work

**Author's Note:**

> As someone who has been avidly following hockey for a little over a decade, I cannot believe that this is my first hockey story. I also cannot believe I wrote Carl and Phil before writing anything Sid and Geno, but alas. The world is full of surprises. I want to thank jord and rae for helping fuel my fire and for encouraging me to write this - you're both the best! 
> 
> This story doesn't follow realistic hockey happenings, so all of the hockey events are of my own creation. The title is from Two Door Cinema Club. Hope you enjoy!

Nothing in life comes easy.

Not even the things you love, except—

Except for when they _do_.

Phil can’t remember the first time his skates touched the ice, he was too young and it was so long ago; the memories have long since started to blur into shavings and snowstorms, a sludgy blend of nostalgia and a chill he can still feel racing down his spine every time the ice opens up before him.

He can’t remember if he’s always been quick, quicker, the quickest, but he knows one thing for certain: that in the moment between his blades touching the ice and him lifting his head, he’s free.

Free of criticism and of tension, of expectations and of disappointment.

In that moment, he’s just Phil, and that’s okay.

 

✧

 

Phil Kessel is a quick guy.

On the ice, mostly, but he’s been known to have the kind of wit that draws people in, if only for a while. He knows what the media thinks of him and he knows that no matter how much he tries to let it all deflect off of him, he’s not invincible, and some things break through.

To combat the frustration, he trains. It’s something he’s learned to do, something that brings him back into a semblance of control that he can manage outside of the cruelty of critics. It’s easier to remind himself that the comments made about his size and shape don’t mean a thing when no one can _catch_ him.

It’s easier on the ice, where he’s the lightning strike ahead of the thunder, sniping pucks to the back of the net before the defense even knows he’s building electricity in the base of his spine, the tips of his fingers.

It takes him quite a while to remember that it’s okay to enjoy the strike, and the resulting roil of thunder that follows. He’s so used to maintaining that stern composure on the ice, under all of those lights, surrounded by the howling and the buzzing of crowds. Sometimes he has to remind himself that this is his sport, his _joy_ , and that he’s allowed to show it.

He learns how to show it in black and gold, the puck whistling off his tape and into the back of the net, his hands already rising overhead. It’s surprising, even now, so many months later, that he’s comfortable enough to celebrate his goal so brazenly. A shaky smile pulls up the corners of his lips, a stranger ghosting across his expression, and he watches Nick Bonino come racing towards him, hooting and hollering even as they collide against the boards.

He feels two others collide with him, twisting them all against the boards, chattering and congratulatory. Carl Hagelin slides easily into the fray, somehow managing to bypass Bonino and wedge his way against Phil’s side. Phil bobs under every tap to his helmet until he’s left with Carl, and he lifts his head just enough to watch Carl’s glove press down over his visor.

His vision’s only distorted for a moment, barely enough time to be disoriented, when he hears Carl’s voice over the booming roar of the crowd around them.

“Nice one, Phil,” he shouts, and he comes close enough for Phil to feel the heat of his breath over his nape. Even as he shouts, somehow his words still resonate in the same way that a whisper does. “Really nice.”

He’s skating away a moment later, and Phil doesn’t think much of the comment. He grins the entire way back to the bench, though, and if he feels a little lighter in his skates, that’s not nothing.

He doesn’t score again, but he does pick up an assist on what would become Carl’s game-winning goal, and it brings them back into a congratulatory herd. This time it’s Phil’s turn to offer some appreciation. He does so with a customary helmet pat, and doesn’t know if his face is flushed because he’s exhausted or because of the sheer beauty of Carl’s deflection.

He says, “That’s a damn fine goal, Haggy,” and watches the way Carl’s eyes trail over his face, wide and bright and clear. Phil feels himself swallow, still pressed in close against Carl, Bonino, Cole, and Schultz, and watches the way Carl’s eyes drop to follow the movement, even as Cole playfully face-washes him. He turns away from the scrub and Phil only just manages to catch his gaze again before he turns back towards the bench, heading down the line to tap every outstretched glove.

He wonders at that look, and the way he can almost feel the heat of Carl at his back.

 

✧

 

Phil is usually a quick guy.

And yet, somehow, it still takes him a surprisingly long amount of time to realize that Carl Hagelin likes to be near him.

Or maybe, Phil thinks the morning before their next practice, maybe it’s because they’re linemates. Maybe Carl finds comfort in the balance of Phil’s pre-game humor and in-game composure, or something equally as entrenched in pregame superstition. He doesn’t actually watch Carl walk into the room, though his presence is immediately made apparent by the catcalls and welcoming shouts from the rest of the team as they continue to suit up.

Phil watches him stride around the floor insignia with careful steps, all from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look up until he feels Carl throw himself down into the stall beside him, so close that his every shift brings their knees together.

Phil doesn’t move his leg. He reaches down to grab his tape and says, “Runnin’ a little late there, eh Haggy?”

When he glances up and over his shoulder, Carl is looking at him. He has an unsettling stare, eyes so light and bright so as to be piercing. Phil hasn’t paid close enough attention to know if he stares at everyone this way, and if it’s common for him not to blink very often. It’s the kind of stare that really picks you apart, and usually Phil would feel uncomfortable underneath it. Usually stares like that would bring out every living insecurity that he hasn’t managed to rid himself of, and usually he can’t stand the focus.

But Carl has never been anything but kind and welcoming to him, and his gaze is becoming more familiar the longer they spend together.

“I’m still early,” Carl responds, and the corner of his lips kicks up a little. Phil’s eyes fall to Carl’s lips and instantly flicker away, before he even realizes it might be weird to just sit there and stare at Carl’s mouth. “And what are you? The tardy police?”

Phil snorts, sitting back up and turning to reach for his practice sweater. He heaves himself up and ignores the tightness in his shoulders, rolling them a bit even as he bunches the sleeves over his forearms. Before poking his head through, he turns back to Carl with pursed brows, utterly amused.

“Tardy police?” He repeats, laughing around the words. “How old are you, five?”

Phil slips his jersey over his head and rolls his shoulders again, flexing them and extending them to try to ease some of the tension. It’s the jostling of Carl’s right leg that catches his attention; an incessant, jittery reaction he’s unused to seeing in his linemate. Most especially considering that they’re only having practice. Phil’s eyes jump from Carl’s tapping leg up to his face and he finds a peculiar expression settled there, along with his sharp gaze. Carl’s eyes drop to Phil’s shoulders, the short line of his neck, and Phil watches him swallow.

“What’s going on here?” someone says from over Phil’s shoulder, and he recognizes Bonino’s voice immediately.

Phil turns away from Carl and the strange expression on his face—something caught between surprised and intent—and smirks at Bonino as he hobbles over to them, already completely geared up. He knocks shoulders with Phil for a moment before glancing over his shoulder to Carl.

“Haggy’s accusing me of monitoring the halls or something.”

“The fuck?” Bonino laughs, from deep in his chest, a one-two puff of bubbly air. He turns to Carl and something subtle shifts over his expression, in the curl of his lips and the sudden gleam in his eyes. Phil frowns, studying that expression with confused curiosity as Bonino purses his lips as if deciding whether he should comment further on the subject.

Apparently deciding that his two-cents are in fact worthy of being voiced, he says, “Man, isn’t this kind of cliché?”

Phil glances at Carl and finds a mask of composure, so different from his earlier openness. It makes Phil frown even more, brows dipping closer in perplexity.

“Then again,” Bonino says, lifting a hand to stroke at his beard. “You probably have the softest bullying techniques I’ve ever seen. Maybe this will actually work for you? You know, bullying the one you—”

“Can it,” Carl responds easily, with no venom to the words. Phil turns to him just in time to see a playful roll of his eyes, his abruptly instated mask of apathy shattered in good humor. Phil glances back and forth between the two of them for only a moment before reaching out to smack lightly at Carl’s arm, and then Bonino’s.

“You’re not like,” he starts, side-eying both of them in turn. “Trying to turn me into a third wheel on our line, eh? Because that’s not cool, man.”

It surprises him into speechlessness when he sees the flush start to dot the skin of Carl’s cheeks, and the way he dips his chin and pretends to fiddle with his already laced skates. Bonino’s resulting laugh, however, does manage to draw Phil’s attention back to him. He looks incredulous, which Phil totally doesn’t understand, even when he goes on to elaborate.

He says, “You? The third wheel? If anyone in this damn line is gonna be sidelined as a spare tire it’s going to be me, man, come on.”

Phil’s curiosity is ravenous, but so is his partiality for chirping, so instead of asking _You? Why are you so certain it would be you?_ He says, “True, you’re more the spare tire type I think.”

Bonino responds with a halfhearted smack of his stick blade against Phil’s shin.

“Taking forever,” a deep voice groans from across the room, drawing their attention for a moment. Geno points from his eyes to their general direction a few times before gesturing towards the tunnel, where much of the team has already begun to gather.

“We leave you to chat,” Geno chirps, gesturing for them to stay where they are. “Important talk about tires.”

“You missed the entire point here, G,” Phil calls, grinning. His grin falls a little when he realizes that, actually, he kind of missed the point too. He turns back to Carl, hoping for that perpetually open expression to hold some answers, but instead he just finds a soft smile, loose and cracked.

“I swear to God,” Bonino says as Carl finally rises from his stall, tucking some of his hair behind his left ear. He moves up until his shoulder touches Phil’s so faintly he almost doesn’t notice, and stays there. “If you two third-wheel me, I’m going to be so pissed.”

Phil instantly replies, “Why wouldn’t we third-wheel you, eh? What’s to like?” He gets an elbow into the ribs for his trouble, and can’t help but laugh a little at the expression of betrayal that crosses Bonino’s face. He watches his eyes leap over Phil’s shoulder, though, and make pointed eye contact with Carl.

“I’m not saying I’m _against_ it, of course. Just don’t leave me out like chopped skewers.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the wrong phrase,” Carl adds easily, pushing forward just enough to shepherd Phil towards the tunnel. Phil barely even notices the pressure or the guidance, and doesn’t even think twice about how familiar the feeling of Carl pressed against him is. He feels a hand press against his shoulder blade, another guiding force as the three of them start to head towards the rink, and he doesn’t even question the familiar weight of it.

“Whatever,” Bonino grumbles under his breath, leading the three of them. “I don’t want to be chopped anything, but I’m willing to become a side dish. Non-chopped.”

“Is he just hungry?” Phil asks over his shoulder, and startles a little at how close Carl is. Carl smiles and it brightens every sharp angle of his face, his hair fluffy and messy enough for Phil to imagine if only for a moment what it might feel like to run his fingers through it. The thought is so sudden and startling that he nearly stumbles before Carl reaches out and catches him, one arm hitched around Phil’s, holding him up with ease.

“He’s always hungry,” he says quietly, lip corners curled softly in subdued delight. His eyes look a little heavier, almost pleased, and Phil hums as they finally feel the chill of the rink race along their skin. “I wouldn’t mind making him a side dish, though.”

“What does that make me?” Phil immediately asks, before he can even consider how self-centered that might sound. He flushes a little in response, but when he glances over his shoulder Carl is still looking at him with those heavy eyes, and that soft smile. His lips part as if to respond, and Phil is suddenly so certain that these are words he desperately wants to hear.

Which makes it even more frustrating when Bonino sings, “Haggy’s main _squeeze_ ,” before he races out onto the ice. The moment the words left his mouth, Phil had planned on _pushing_ him, but he’d missed his window.

He can’t help but laugh, though, lifting a hand to secure his chinstrap. How bizarre to think that he could be anything more than a linemate to someone as special as Carl Hagelin.

 

✧

 

Phil stays late after practice more often than not, just to get a little more skating in, a little more time with the feel of the ice so steady and solid under his feet. Sometimes Sidney will stay behind, working on his speed or his dexterity or any number of things that Phil thought looked just fine—in that they were pretty much already perfect. He’d tell him so, too, and just get a little smile in return.

Maatta, Sheary, and Murray will stick behind too, practicing and perfecting. He likes to watch the young guys trying so hard so fix mistakes so early in their practice, likes to see the genuine joy and focus they put into working overtime.

He also likes to chirp the living daylights out of them whenever he can, because really? Sometimes they get _too_ focused.

“It’s not even a game day!” He laughs, swooping in and around the back of the cage. Murray ignores him completely, that goalie-focus impenetrable. Phil does feel a striking gaze drill into his shoulder blades as he races down the wing, though, and he takes a flicker of a moment to wonder about goalie powers.

Sidney and the kids aren’t the only players who often stay behind for more independent study, sure, but Phil is still surprised when he comes curling out from behind the opposite goal to see Carl stepping onto the ice. He and Carl are both fresh additions to the team, already rooted in and flourishing, but still new.

Phil remembers wondering how they’d get on, when he first heard the news. He knew Carl was fast, one of the fastest—just like _him_ —and he wondered at the likeliness of being linemates. He used to think about it sometimes, when he was home alone and watching golf from the couch. He remembers Stella jumping up and resting her head on his lap, entirely too put out from being a dog to even beg for dinner, apparently.

“New guy comin’ to town, Stella,” he remembers telling her, lifting a hand to rub absentmindedly at her fluffy ears. Then, smiling a little, he’d corrected himself. “ _Another_ new guy, eh? Wonder what Hagelin’s like in the room.”

He knew what Hagelin was like on the _ice_.

Swift and smooth and _lethal_ in a way that makes Phil bite his lip whenever he allows his mind to wander. He’d watched footage on the guy out of simple curiosity; he’d known his name before, and his face—not an easy face to forget.

And if Phil were a little more honest with himself, he might admit that Carl Hagelin’s face wasn’t one he’d want to forget, either.

But he’s not in the business of hoping for hopeless things, and so he isn’t exactly honest with himself here. Carl Hagelin is the kind of beautiful that you don’t often see on the ice, and when you do, you don’t keep looking. Not when he’s Phil Kessel, who became a walking fat joke early on, and who always seems to put his foot in his mouth in front of cameras.

No, he decided long ago to focus entirely on admiring Carl’s style of hockey, so similar yet so uniquely separate from his own. There’s enough there for him to daydream for a lifetime, in the seamless slopes of speed that Carl makes look effortless, and the sharp turnaround of his focused rejoinders. There’s focus, and then there’s _focus_ , and Carl Hagelin exhibits the latter in near perfect practice.

It’s—charming.

Phil has a routine he sticks to regardless of the game or the circumstance: any time before the game is a time to ease down, to loosen the tension and make jokes until all the serrated edges and sharp angles around him are relieved enough to fall lax, shoulders resting idly and jaws unclenching. It’s a time for his particular brand of humor, uplifting one moment and chirpy the next; a silly blend of nonsense that somehow, impossibly, seems to soothe those around him. Sure, Phil’s a quiet guy himself at times, but he has a particular brand of humor that the Penguins locker-room fast became privy to. He used to wonder if someone as composed and temperate as Carl Hagelin could loosen up, settle down.

If Phil’s ridiculous humor could melt all those impossibly sharp angles into something soothed and content, before it’s time to build them back up stronger and steadier.

It’s the moments before they head down the tunnel where he reinstates his own composure, sown bone-deep and sturdy with time and practice, so when it comes time for him to step out onto that ice, he’s ready.

He’s _ready_.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried about Carl Hagelin.

He came to them in a blur of black and gold and gold and _gold_ , every bit of him radiant, and Phil glanced over his shoulder at him before their first game together and said, “Let’s fucking get it done, eh?”

Carl’s lips curled around a smile that showed too many teeth, his clear eyes icy and sharp and moving straight _through_ him.

Phil still feels chills when he remembers that smile, and the expectant way that Carl stepped closer to him the next moment, their shoulders touching.

He shakes himself out of the memory and refocuses on the present Carl, one with a slice across the bridge of his nose that’s bright and pink. He catches Phil’s eye immediately and heads straight towards him, lilting from skate to skate with the effortless ease of practice and familiarity. Somehow, with Carl, it looks beautiful—before Phil can even put a stop to the thought, it’s already there in the forefront of his mind: _everything he does is beautiful._

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat a little. He watches Carl’s slow blink, and the casual way he slides to a stop in front of Phil, eyes trailing over him in the same way Phil might expect if he’d just been checked into the boards with a little extra love, slow to rise. “You stay late too, eh? You’re full of surprises.”

“Yeah,” Carl says, and one corner of his lips curls into a smirk. He blinks slowly, almost carefully, and Phil can’t help but feel a little squirmy under his sharp gaze. He’s only begun to notice this recently—this _habit_.

The realization is still too fresh for him to have observed Carl closely with others to see if he gazes at them in the same way he so often looks on at Phil, but he’s planning on it. Because if he doesn’t—if he _doesn’t_ , then what does that mean?

Phil’s first instinct is to feel self-conscious; what is he looking at and what’s so interesting about his face and why _him_? But he’s long since started working on that shitty negative self-talk he’d heard enough from Toronto media and critics and people his entire _life_ , and Amanda would absolutely destroy him if she knew the path of his thoughts, so he tucks it back and away in his mind.

“I stay late sometimes,” Carl defends, and Phil watches the words form on his lips before he jolts, all too aware of his own staring, and glances back up to Carl’s eyes. It’s barely a mercy, because there isn’t a part of Carl that doesn’t make Phil tremble.

But when he smiles, slow and smug like he knows _exactly_ what Phil is thinking—Phil’s glad when he glances over Carl’s shoulder and finds Sheary flying their way. The kid picks up impossible speed without any kind of momentum or weight to pull him through it, and it never fails to make Phil a little envious and a little proud all at once. He swallows heavily and ignores the way Carl watches him for a moment longer, tilting his head a bit before he turns to greet Sheary, too.

Sheary stops on a dime just before them, showering them with shavings. Phil expects his usual dopey smile, the one that says he’s just so happy to be here and he’s having so much fun and he still sort of can’t believe this is his life—but instead, they get pursed lips and frowning eyebrows, eyes set deep and lines of strain marring the youth of his expression.

“Hey,” he greets, nodding. “You free?”

“Born in the U.S. of A,” Phil immediately agrees, in complete deadpan. He smiles, though, and hopes to get one out of the kid, too. Sheary offers him a pitying look, which Phil thinks is a little ironic considering the circumstances, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just rolls his eyes and asks, “What d’ya need, kid?”

“Control,” Sheary says immediately, and he grits his teeth to punctuate the sentiment. Carl turns completely to him then, squaring off against his shorter form and allowing the smile he’d held for Phil alone to slip from his face. Phil watches the way his composure reigns with stolen curiosity, the way it shifts like a slow second coming over his fair expression.

“You want to work on your stick handling?” Carl asks, and he sounds so serious that Phil almost laughs. He doesn’t, though, because Sheary warmed the bench throughout the third three nights ago and this isn’t something to laugh about. Being benched isn’t something a young kid is going to laugh about, and it’s not something that he, as an older guy in the room, wants to laugh about either.

Phil doesn’t feel old until he sees the rookies play, and then it’s not really that he feels old but that he feels _lethargic_. They just have so much energy, constantly chattering and whizzing by the vets in practice, asking a thousand questions and offering a thousand more smug ideas, each more creative than the last, just waiting for a face-washing or a chirp or both.

There’s no humor or conceit on Sheary’s face now, just simple, dogged focus. He stares long and hard at Carl, as though Carl is going to say _no_ , and then he glances over his shoulder and stares at Phil, too. Phil’s easy for those puppy dog eyes—always has been, always will be.

He’s parting his lips around acceptance when Carl slides a little closer, right in front of him, a sudden wall built and held between Phil and Sheary. It startles Phil enough to make him laugh, and he reaches forward to push lightly at Carl’s shoulder, saying, “What’s your deal, man?”

“I’ll help you,” Carl says, ignoring Phil’s amused remark. And Phil—Phil bites on his lip and puts a stop to anything else he might’ve thought to say. That same bitter insecurity rears its ugly head and he can’t help but wonder if maybe Carl thinks he’s not the guy for the job.

But he shakes the thought off a moment later; he knows without any of that incessant doubt that’s always plaguing him just for old-time’s sake that he has plenty of puck control, and that this has nothing to do with the current situation. He studies Carl’s profile with visible perplexity, squinting with lips pursed, until he notices the tip of Carl’s exposed ear.

It’s flushed cherry red, and Phil knows it’s not from the cold—otherwise he’d feel his own fair skin flushing under the chill of it, too.

He has no clue why Carl is flushed, and no matter how creative he tries to get, he can’t wrap his mind around anything substantial.

He wonders if Carl is embarrassed to have leapt at the opportunity to help a rookie out, to become a mentor of sorts, and that almost fits. So Phil relaxes and feels a smile slide over his expression, resting his weight back on his heels.

Sheary still looks more serious than a kid should. “Yeah? Hey man, thanks, I appreciate it.”

Carl only nods, golden head bobbing. He says, “Be there in a second. Get some pucks?”

“Yeah,” Sheary agrees, and Phil watches the kid finally smile. He nearly rolls his eyes, can’t help but to think fondly, of course its straight-laced and sincere Carl Hagelin that gets a smile out of him. “Of course.”

Sheary jets off towards the benches and shouts something fiery at Maatta, who completely ignores him in just the same way Murray had ignored Phil, and this time he does laugh a little under his breath. When he turns back to Carl and finds him adjusting to face him, he looks almost _embarrassed._

He doesn’t mention the flush on his cheeks highlighting the cut on the bridge of his nose, or the contrast between the softness of pink and blue and fair, fair skin with the sharpness of his jaw, and the arrow of his nose. Instead, Phil reaches forward and lightly punches Carl’s shoulder, says, “You sure cut in there, didn’t ya? What, are you trying to say I don’t have any control?”

He says it with a laugh, eyes squinting a bit at his own humor. Carl purses his lips, smiling from the corners, and his eyes gleam with sudden amusement. He lifts a hand up to gently tuck some of his hair behind his ear, so delicately flushed, almost self-consciously. That same hand reaches out and gently presses against Phil’s chest and remains there, knuckles against heart, and Phil has just enough time to feel the sudden heaviness of his chest, his heart, (the weight of Carl’s hand so close so _close_ ), before Carl glances over his features and says ever so cryptically, “Maybe a little too much control, Phil.”

He lingers for a moment longer, just to look on at the devastation of confusion etched so blatantly over Phil’s face. And then, without another word of explanation or clarification or even a chirp, he’s already on the other side of the ice, leaning over a stick and a lineup of pucks, one already lovingly held against his tape. He twirls it in easy arcs, sliding it between his feet and around them, never once losing control, and Phil’s heart no longer knows the taste of control.

It flutters relentlessly in his chest, calling to be noticed, to notice, and Phil has to shake out his shoulders and push himself forward to even try to start to work out whatever it was that Carl had meant.

He stays on the ice for another hour and doesn’t make any progress on that, though he does work himself into a delightful sweat, muscles and joints just angry enough for him to know he’s done good work.

And if he looks back to Carl a few times, he tells himself it’s because his hands are soft enough to draw the attention regardless of his own overwhelming confusion with the man.

And if he thinks about those soft hands in a different way, without ice or sticks or skates, and how they might feel in his hands, well.

Phil is still working on being honest with himself.

 

✧

 

Phil takes a page out of Carl’s book and he starts watching things a little more closely.

And by things, he means any interaction between Carl and a teammate that happens close enough for Phil to sneakily observe without being a total creep. He watches Bonino gesturing wildly with his hands and talking a thousand miles a minute, chattering without breathing in hushed tones, eyes wild as he recounts some fishing story Phil himself has already heard at _least_ ten times. Carl is magnanimously receptive to the telling, and he smiles with humor and laughs at all the funny parts, eyes squinting shut and a fist coming up to his mouth. He coos appropriately when Bonino switches to rapid-fire baby stories and Phil studies the softened lines of Carl’s elegant features, and it’s different.

When Carl interacts with Daley, Phil thinks he’ll finally pass the test. There isn’t a person under the roof of Consol that can spend any amount of time with Trevor Daley and not leave beaming, walking off with a little of his excess radiance.

So Phil leans down over his skates and carefully laces them up, continuously flicking his gaze up to the two of them as Carl starts explaining the way Horny found the puck in the crease in their last game against the Sharks, and how Carl nearly deflected the shot _away_ from Jones’ net. Daley lights up in the same way he always does, from the tips of his toes he’s lifted on to the high-rise eyebrows, every part of him excitable.

And yet, even still, Carl’s smile is a muted shadow lacking the feeling and the clarity Phil gets when it’s pointed his way.

He even gets caught, once; when he’s pretending to adjust the tape on the blade of his stick but is actually watching Geno hang on Carl while laughing between his teeth. He watches how Geno slings an arm heavily over Carl’s shoulders and whispers something into his ear, loudly enough for the subject of his humor to jolt across the chattering room and turn over his shoulder with cheeks stained pink. Sidney shakes his head but he can’t hide the smile pushing against his lips, eyes flickering between Carl and Geno respectively. He calls out, “Don’t listen to a word he says, Hags!”

And Phil watches the amusement and the grin that crosses Carl’s face, and the following curl of laughter, and it’s _different_.

It’s not _his_ smile—the one that Carl saves for Phil.

And before he can even wipe his expression clean of that newfound confusion rekindled, he blinks himself back into focus and realizes that Carl has caught him staring. Geno still has an arm slung over his shoulders and he’s still doing his best to make his boyfriend implode from embarrassment—and he’s doing a great job, Phil thinks—but Carl only jostles under Geno’s movements and continues looking over at Phil.

And then he smiles, and it’s Phil’s, it’s clear and bright and it slices right through him until every part of him shakes.

He looks away because he has to, because if he doesn’t then, well.

He doesn’t know and he won’t allow himself to follow the trail of thought much longer, either. They have a game to play and he doesn’t have the luxury of getting to wonder if someone as sincere and gentle and kind as Carl Hagelin might find him anything more than vaguely interesting.

So he focuses entirely on his tape and his skates and his stall, twisting to grab his helmet and securing the chinstrap with deft fingers that tremble.

“Phil, man, you okay?” Bonino calls, having to raise his voice to be heard over the chaos of the room. Phil turns to him and smiles with ease, already bobbing his head, deliberately looking nowhere but at Bonino’s bald head and magnificent beard.

“Yeah pop, I’m good.”

“We talked about this,” Bonino immediately says, holding out a threatening index finger. He raises one eyebrow and then turns and hobbles a few steps away, grabbing a fist of Matt Cullen’s sweater and dragging him over to Phil’s stall. “ _This_ is dad. Don’t you pay attention to social media?”

Cullen rolls his eyes but there’s humor laced in his smile, and he doesn’t seem bothered by the nickname at all. Phil takes the moment to jump on this distraction wholeheartedly, and pretends that he can’t feel Carl’s gaze still drilling into him from somewhere over his shoulder.

“Do _you_?” He asks, laughing under his breath. “There can be _two_ dads, now.”

“Save it,” Cullen finally joins in, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. It’s somehow aimed perfectly at Sidney, and Phil finds him being lovingly accosted in his own stall by a lumbering number seventy-one. “If anyone is going to be the dads here, it’s them.”

“Youth,” a voice suddenly sighs from the doorway, and all three of them turn to see the most magnificent beard to ever exist, attached to Pascal Dupuis’ face. He smirks, watching Geno try in aggressive desperation to press a kiss to Sidney’s neck while their captain pushes him off with laughter like bubble wrap, coming out in breathy, rapid bursts.

“My _routine_ ,” they hear him argue, but the severity of it is ruined entirely by the laughter it comes through. Duper looks to Cullen and Phil grins enough for his cheeks to hurt at the blatant proud dad vibes the two of them emit. He turns to Bonino with a curious, speculative glance and says, “Where’s your dad vibe, eh?”

“I _told_ you—“

And Phil only laughs, because in that next moment Carl edges his way into his line of sight, and Phil isn’t about to make things awkward between linemates, especially moments before a game. So he pulls himself together and gestures to Bonino, Cullen, and Duper in a swinging arc.

“We’re surrounded by dads, Hags.”

“And soon-to-be dads,” Duper adds, a curious gleam in his bright eyes. “I would guess.”

“No fuckin’ way,” a new voice suddenly joins, as Bryan Rust inches closer to their half-formed circle. Phil watches Carl inch closer to him from the corner of his eye, and he can’t help but bask in the familiarity of it.

Duper, in perfect deadpan, “Way.”

“ _Probably_ ,” Flower calls from a few slots over, giving Duper the evil eyes. They’re especially frightening coming from a goalie, and after a moment of gregarious eye rolling, Duper bends to their will.

“Probably,” he amends, before showcasing some rude gesture in Flower’s direction. Flower takes it in stride and fires something filthy off in French, until Sidney catches wind of it and turns bright red by proximity.

Phil feels the subtle pressure of contact against his side and finds Carl close enough to touch, to reach for, and he smiles. He can’t help it, not when Carl is looking down at him with those big eyes and that slow, careful smile that’s _his_.

It’s his.

He says, “Gonna be a great fuckin’ game, eh?”

And Carl’s smile grows into something receptive and breathtaking.

He says, “You bet your ass it is,” and then he reaches for the back of Phil’s helmet and pulls until their visors touch, until Phil is close enough to smell the mint of Carl’s breath and see the slightly chapped cracks in his lips. Sullivan walks into the room and everyone turns to face him before he’s even spoken a word, a certain kind of commanding respect for someone who turned worlds to make the present attainable. Carl pauses a moment longer than the rest before he pulls himself away, and with him, all of the breath in Phil’s lungs.

He doesn’t hear a word that Sully says, after that. All there is for him is breathlessness, golden curls within reach, those ears tipped in cherry red, and the subtle pressure of Carl’s shoulder pressing against his as they walk down the tunnel.

He’s everywhere he looks, and everywhere he feels.

And it’s not so bad to just let that be.

 

✧

 

It takes some time, some wins and fewer losses, before Phil allows himself to just go with it; with Carl’s looks and his particular smiles and the way he seems to actually like to be near to Phil, in the room or on the ice, wherever they can press together. Phil just goes with it, and for a while, it’s good. It’s so good and the familiarity of Carl on his left wing, with Bonino centering them, starts to feel like home on the ice.

Just because it’s good doesn’t mean that it isn’t, at times, difficult. Phil goes tense every time Carl reaches for the back of his helmet, and every time they find each other in the chaos of a celly and Carl tucks his nose against Phil’s neck, lips so close to _pressing—_

Phil starts having dreams. There’s no way to actually stop a dream from happening until you’re out of it, but by the time he’s out of these, well, he needs to make a few changes.

Sheets, for instance. And boxers.

He loses count of the amount of dreams he has in the upcoming weeks of the season, but he can do nothing about remembering parts of them at the most inappropriate of times.

Like when he’s on the ice and he taps his stick and he calls, “Haggy! Haggy!” and he remembers his dreams and the way that Carl had slid his hand so gently, so carefully down the line of Phil’s naked spine, from the crease below his tailbone to the nape of his neck. He remembers the cautious pressure of his cock against his ass, the blatant want of his undulating hips, and the way his lips came to press against the pulse in Phil’s neck.

The words, whispered breathlessly against his throat: _I want to be inside you, Phil_. _Can I?_

Even in his dreams the man was polite.

He receives Carl’s pass with only the slightest of bobbles, nothing detrimental or dangerous but still something he could’ve prevented if he’d had his usual clear mind out on the ice—if he’d been thinking of his next possible ten steps and plays instead of the impossibly realistic pressure of Carl pressing into him until his hips were flush with Phil’s ass, and all Phil could do was breathe, _Yes_.

He takes a hit late in the third that’s anything but clean but still goes without being called, and it takes him a bit longer than usual to get back up. His ears ring a bit and he knows his ribs are going to bruise, if they aren’t already working on it. The high hit is enough to clear his mind, though, a harsh reminder to compose himself and focus on turning this game around.

They might have, too, if Carl hadn’t taken such a late and irresponsible penalty in retaliation against Dustin Brown. Phil sees it coming ages before anyone else does, except for maybe Sidney, but he can do nothing for it from the bench where his line is sitting jittery and preparing to launch back over the boards.

Phil watches Carl turn from his lane and head straight for him, hands outstretched and driving his entire body cleanly into Dustin’s side. They both clash into the boards, but Brown’s got more than twenty pounds on him and he takes him down to the ice. Neither of them takes any swings, but Carl has a fist in Dustin’s sweater by the time the officials blow their whistles and call for the penalty.

Irresponsible, Phil had thought, watching Carl fume his entire way to the box. He doesn’t shout or hit anything or even frown. All of his anger is in his eyes, and they _burn_.

“That was sweet of him,” someone says on Phil’s left, and he turns to see Drew Doughty skating out past him with a bright, toothless smile as the Kings power play unit takes the ice. Phil doesn’t say much of anything at all in response, though he’d love to tell Doughty to go fuck himself. He decides instead to just save his breath; he’s going to need it.

He does need it, and he works hard until the final buzzer blares, but it still isn’t enough. Carter scores on an empty net and Carl comes out of the box with wilting shoulders and a mouth pursed in frustration.

The Penguins go down the tunnel with more disappointment than excitement, as Consol becomes a graveyard of lost expectations around them.

Phil doesn’t know how to approach the subject that so clearly needs approaching, but he knows for certain that doing so in the locker-room in front of all the guys isn’t the right way to go about things. He can see Sidney eyeing Carl carefully, almost pointedly, and he knows without having to even go so far as assuming that Sidney is debating if he should pull Carl aside after the room’s cleared out. After a long moment of consideration and watching as Carl strips off his jersey and his pads, it seems as though he’s reticent enough for Sidney to decide against it.

Phil, however, is definitely going to have words with him. It was _he_ that Carl had been defending, after all, and there was no questioning if that’s what it had been, because it’d been blatant. Someone doesn’t veer away from a play and leave a clear lane just to check someone unless it’s retaliatory.

And Phil doesn’t want to be the reason that Carl gets less time on the ice to help them to a win. They _need_ him, and Phil isn’t about to let such careless behavior slide when he’s so directly involved. He needs him, too.

Sullivan comes and goes and eventually, so does the team. Murray walks a little less tall until Flower comes to his side and bumps him back into alignment, and Phil sees him lift his chin for the first time since the end of the game right as he’s walking through the doors.

“Hey, Hags,” Phil says lowly, when only Sidney, Geno, and Maatta are left in the room. Maatta walks past them with a little nod as Carl rips the tape from his legs, not looking at Phil. “You ignoring me? Come on.”

Carl focuses entirely on ripping the tape away, his jaw clenching once, then twice. Phil slipped out of his gear ages ago and feels a chill from the sweat running down his spine, just under the delicate line of his undershirt. He frowns as the media scrum starts streaming in, looking only for Sidney and Geno for explanations about the loss. Phil glances back to Carl and finds that jaw clenched so tightly it’s a wonder his teeth don’t shatter, and when he rises to his feet and looks to make his way out of the room, Phil moves instantly to shadow him.

Phil is a little taller than Carl, but every time they stand face to face off the ice he feels like he’s looking up to meet Carl’s gaze. He doesn’t know if it’s something about his cool maturity, that endlessly composed stature he always holds, broken down only in fragments of smiles and laugher and now, frustration. But even as Phil follows him out into the hall, he feels like he’s chasing a giant.

It’s probably just his nerves, though. His face is still flushed from exertion and now, embarrassment, as the dreams suddenly crash through his memory once again. He bats them away and reaches for Carl’s arm at the same time, saying, “Carl, man. We gotta talk.”

His fingers slide easily over Carl’s wrist, and he’s a little surprised at how easy it is for his fingertips to touch. Carl stops walking at the sound of his name, his first name, and his shoulders are suddenly so tense it startles Phil into releasing his wrist. Carl turns over his shoulder and his eyes jump immediately to Phil’s retreating hand, almost repentant.

“Yeah,” he says, and he turns. He faces Phil completely and his eyes are so blue, so clear, and Phil can barely get a single word out even though he was the one who wanted to talk. They’re far enough from the scrum that neither of them would have to worry about their voices, but even still, Phil doesn’t want to broadcast this.

So he speaks lowly, under his breath, and Carl—ever receptive, ever polite—leans towards him.

“You can’t be doing shit like that, you know?” Phil says, not knowing where or how to start and instead just plunging forth. Carl’s eyebrows dip ever so slightly, and frustration crests every sharp angle of his expression. “I get it, I totally get it man but we need you out there. Not in the fucking box.”

Carl studies his expression for several long moments; his striking eyes flickering, his long eyelashes dancing over his cheekbones. What he finds there seems to frustrate him even more, and he turns his gaze away, until he’s looking through the front room towards the front desk, worrying his lips. Phil lets him regain that composure and stock it up in his words, gives him time to come up with an explanation or a response, and is floored when Carl turns back to him almost shakily, lips chewed bright red.

“Man, you had to know it was for you,” he explains, and he’s looking at Phil like he cannot _believe_ that he has to put this into words. Phil puffs out a single, surprised laugh and says, “I know.”

And this, it seems, is enough to surprise Carl, too.

“You know?”

“Yeah,” Phil says slowly, ridiculously self-conscious all of the sudden. He glances at the little Penguins insignia on Carl’s chest, can’t even manage to get the words out while looking him in the eyes. “I mean, I thought so. The timing was kind of—right after I went down, and it was Brownie, and you just happened to go after him, you know? His wasn’t the cleanest of hits or whatever, so yeah, it makes sense—”

“No,” Carl interrupts, and there’s newfound steel backing his words. It makes Phil look back up and meet his gaze, newly vivid and focused in a way that surprises him. There’s _intent_ , there, and Phil doesn’t know how to interpret it. As it turns out, though, he needn’t have tried.

“I didn’t take that stupid fucking penalty because it was a dirty hit. It was, but that wasn’t why I did it.” His every word is a controlled storm, and Phil would have to be completely un-oriented to time and space not to realize how painstakingly clear Carl is trying to make this message—how much effort he’s putting into making it explicable.

“I did it because it was _you_ ,” he says, unabashed and unblinking even as Phil’s cheeks start to fill with heat and he finally, _finally_ understands. Carl cements his understanding with undeniable clarity, says, “He hurt you and he didn’t care and I did. I _do_.”

Phil sucks in a deep breath and his heart is the only thing he can hear for a long moment, a steadily increasing _thump-thump, thump-thump_ , until Carl steps closer, until there’s only a breath of space between them. His hair falls over his forehead but his focus never breaks from Phil, and he reaches out until his fingertips trail over the crest of his cheekbone, his thumb stopping to rest there.

Phil is at a complete loss for words, and every part of him trembles. For a moment he wonders if he’s dreaming, if this entire game had been one big fantasy leading to this moment and he’s about to wake up with his heart racing embarrassingly quickly in his chest, his face flushed with desire.

But this feels _real_ , and he wants so badly to believe it—to trust that someone like Carl Hagelin might find him attractive, that he might _want_ him.

If this is real, he thinks incredulously as Carl’s eyes dance almost dotingly between his eyes, then this is everything he never let himself hope for.

Carl’s eyes ask a question Phil can actually understand, and has wanted desperately, and he hopes something about his expression answers _yes_ because he’s too afraid to say it out loud.

And it does; it must, because Carl steps even closer until he can lean in and press his lips to Phil’s, right there in the open hall of Consol Energy Center. Phil barely moves, barely breathes for fear of shattering this dream or this fantasy or this _moment_ , but when Carl tilts his head just so and brushes the tip of his nose over Phil’s, for some reason it makes him believe.

This is real.

He leans into Carl’s wanting lips and feels them turn up into a smile, pressing against his own. It isn’t until he feels the wet slide of Carl’s tongue against his lips that he realizes he has a hand fisted in Carl’s shirt, and it’s trembling. Carl pulls back just enough to pull lightly at Phil’s lower lip, to breathe “ _Finally_ ,” against his lips before coming back in for more.

Phil lets himself be kissed for as long as he thinks is acceptable for such a public hallway before he has to pull away, and even then, it’s almost impossible to follow through with it.

Carl pushes in where Phil pulls away and he finds himself laughing into the kiss, so full of joy he’s nearly bursting with it. Carl presses his smile, _Phil’s_ smile against his lips and only then does he let Phil back off, cheeks flushed hot and pink with nerves and happiness.

He watches Carl watching him, gauging his expression, and after several long moments with them breathing the heated air between them, Carl asks, “Is this okay?”

Phil blurts, “Is this real?” and Carl bursts into laughter, his eyes bright and gleaming, reminiscent of early morning. He leans back in so freely, without hesitation, and wraps his arms around Phil’s shoulders. Phil goes slack in his arms, closing his eyes to try to remember every moment of this feeling, of them pressed so closely together. He can’t remember feeling this happy, in this way—the closest comparison was the draft, was finding out he could play professional ice hockey for a living.

And this? This is so, so close to that feeling.

“Cheesy,” Carl snorts against his jaw, nosing his way against the still-heated skin of Phil’s throat. He presses a gentle kiss there, against Phil’s pulse, and it’s sudden the way Phil remembers his dreams, and similar kisses pressed in not so similar places.

It’s enough to make him jerk back a bit, just enough for him see Carl’s gentle expression. He wears every emotion so openly, and suddenly Phil realizes that _that_ is the answer he’s been looking for all this time—what makes this smile different than the ones Carl shows to their teammates, and it’s _this_.

It’s an open expression of feelings, of what looks to be something of a blended mix of admiration and adoration and Phil can barely _breathe_ with recognition.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, and Carl’s lips quirk. The tension that had pulled Carl taut just moments before pools out of him until even the sharpest of his angles seems soothed.

“Yeah,” Carl agrees and he reaches out again, just to slide his knuckles along the slope of Phil’s cheekbone. It’s as though Phil’s recognition and acceptance of his affections has opened a floodgate; Carl touches him freely and without hesitation, and he can’t seem to stop.

Not that Phil ever, ever wants him to stop. That is just about the last thing that Phil wants Carl to do, especially in this earliest of stages, where he has only just begun to _start_.

Carl leans forward again just to rest their foreheads together, eyes closed. Phil thinks about starts and what started _this_ and then he remembers the whole reason they’re in the hallway. He wants desperately to be done with it, to not ruin this lighthearted and intimate mood they’ve created around each other, almost protectively—but Phil thinks about their team and their potential and the fact that they could go all the way, and he has to say something. He has to.

He says, low and quiet and nearly against Carl’s lips, “Carl, man, we still have to talk about that penalty.”

Carl laughs lowly, carefully nodding against Phil’s forehead.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, “I fucked up.”

“Right,” Phil agrees, and he honestly can’t stop smiling. He can still hear the media scrum just down the hall, still harassing Sidney and Geno, but other than that the hallway is silent. There’s no sign of anyone else; it’s just the two of them, pressed together. “Don’t do it again, eh?”

There’s a moment of pause that has Phil blinking, expecting a certain kind of answer, before Carl nudges closer so he can nose against the line of Phil’s jaw and he shoots back with, “Protect yourself better.”

Phil can’t help but laugh, even though he’s not going to lose this battle. He can feel Carl’s smile pressed against him and it warms him from the inside out, and everything that had felt heavy and tense now is light. Just having this moment, this proof that Carl actually really likes him, makes him feel free in a way he hasn’t in years.

“This isn’t on me!”

“Didn’t you live in Canada for ages?” Carl responds in exasperation, and Phil thinks he might be laughing at him. “Shouldn’t you know how to compromise?”

“I’m American. We don’t compromise.”

“That’s not exactly historically accurate.”

“I think I liked it better when we were kissing and you couldn’t talk,” Phil jokes, and it startles a surprised laugh out of Carl, too. He pulls back and Phil flushes under the direct line of his fond stare, and the slow lift of his smile.

“I like kissing you,” he says honestly, and Phil thinks he’s quite liable to actually fall over.

“Man,” he groans, leaning forward to press his forehead against Carl’s chest. He feels his arms come up around him, solid and safe, and he grumbles, “Aren’t you embarrassed saying shit like that?”

“No,” Carl says easily. “I’ve wanted to say shit like that for months. Now that I can say it all freely, I’m not going to stop just to save you the embarrassment.”

“Me? Embarrassed? You’re the one saying the embarrassing shit!”

“Maybe,” Carl admits, while sounding far too smug for his or Phil’s own good. “But it’s a win-win for me. I’m not embarrassed, and I like when you are.”

Phil only groans against his chest, and Carl nuzzles their cheeks together. Phil jolts at the contact; still surprised at being touched so intimately and so much by someone he thought would never see him as anything other than a teammate, a linemate.

And this, a bumbling reminder.

Phil breathes, “ _Bonino_.”

Carl snorts and says, “He already knows how I feel about you.”

Phil blinks, pauses. Lets that sink in. Then he says, “What?”

“I wasn’t particularly…subtle.”

Phil pulls back and shows Carl every dip and break of his incredulous expression, brows pursed and lips gaping.

“What…the fuck. Where do I even start with that? How you feel about me? Or that you think you weren’t subtle?”

“I was not subtle,” Carl says with certainty, shaking his head. Phil studies his fond expression, and his heart lurches. “I think you’re the only person in the room other than Horny who didn’t know.”

“Horny?”

Carl gives him a critical look. “If Horny knew, you’d have known a few minutes later. Like he could keep a secret.” Carl shakes his head, amused. Phil has to give him that one, shrugging his shoulders a bit.

Phil thinks about the entire locker-room apparently knowing that Carl was interested in him, and it makes him flush. If Carl was so blatant about his intentions, how had Phil missed them all? The answer comes immediately afterward: he hadn’t missed them.

He’d dismissed them.

His damned self-consciousness.

He could’ve been kissing Carl for _months_ , if he’d just allowed himself to believe someone like Carl would even want him in the first place. He can hear his sister’s voice in his mind, smug and all knowing, _good things come when you learn to love yourself_. He can practically see her shrugging her shoulders afterwards, too.

“Pretty crazy, eh?” He finally says, refocusing. Carl nods slowly, still smiling so softly. “What’s next then?”

“Well,” Carl says, and when his smile quirks into something distinctly amused, Phil knows he’s going to be chirped. “We could get out of this hallway. Maybe go on a date. Wanna get hot dogs?”

Any other person, and Phil would’ve just rolled his eyes, let the joke roll of his back as he always does. But because this is Carl, potentially _his_ Carl, he grins.

“Yeah,” he says, and he allows Carl to press a hand over his left shoulder blade to guide them out of their hallway. “Hot dogs sound great.”

 

✧

 

Phil knows that Carl likes to be near him, to press a little closer to him than he does with other teammates. He knows that Carl’s affectionate in celly circles, unafraid to shine bright and hone right in on the playmaker for congratulations. If anything, Phil thinks, it’s harder _not_ to notice how much Carl prefers to express himself through touch rather than words. That’s not to say that he isn’t a chatterbox at practice, because he most certainly is; and Phil starts to understand the connection between the two, and how Carl chatters with everyone but only seems to continuously want to touch Phil.

Phil has always thought he understood Carl well enough, watched him close enough, that nothing much else could surprise him about the man.

That was before he felt fingertips sliding over his cheek, so fucking _gentle_ , and moments later the insistent press of Carl’s lips on his own. That was before he started actually, truly paying attention to how much Carl touches him, and how often he presses carefully into Phil’s personal space.

It astounds him that he’d missed so much, to the point that he starts to wonder if maybe Carl is just being more affectionate now that they’re openly into each other, or if he’d just honestly _missed_ how blatant Carl has been these past few months. On sheer principle, Phil refuses to let himself entertain the validity of the latter, because if it were true—well, then how could he have missed so many signs? What did that make him? Totally clueless? Pathetically doubtful? There really isn’t a charming option for him in this scenario, so instead of trying to come up with anything, he tries to ignore it completely.

Nick Bonino and his expressive eyebrows don’t let him off the hook quite so easily, though. He skates circles around Phil for a while in practice, dropping countless smug little knowing chirps that Phil just laughs off with cheeks flushed.

“Come on, man,” Bonino calls, laughing. “Throw me a bone! I’ve known _forever_ and I couldn’t say a damn thing. The trust is real.”

“Trust?” Phil calls, turning with a smirk over his shoulder. “Between you and Hags, but not you and me, then, eh?”

“Woah,” Bonino throws his hands out defensively, one still clutched easily around his stick. “I’m not playing favorites! And besides, you weren’t the one with the secret.”

Phil has to concede temporary defeat on that account, as it’s his turn to storm the net with Kuni coming down his left wing simultaneously. Murray stands tall in the net and watches them unblinkingly, eyes focused and piercing through the bars of his helmet. Phil passes to Kuni and gets the puck back a split second later, turning and firing all in one motion to send a rocket top shelf. Murray’s glove swipes the puck out of the air as though swatting a wayward fly, closed then open in a blink, and the puck comes sailing back towards them along the ice. Phil shakes his head in appreciation even as he swoops back and around to the other side of the ice, where Bonino is waiting, perched on his stick.

“Kid’s something else,” he hears Duper say along the bench as he passes, and he can’t help but silently agree. You’d never know the man behind the mask was just a twenty-one year old kid if not for the announcers constantly reveling in the information—as they _should_.

“You know,” Bonino says the moment Phil’s within earshot. “Speaking of secrets and all that, you have to tell me, man.”

Phil waits a generous amount of time before turning to Bonino with eyebrows raised. “Tell you what?”

Bonino doesn’t wait a beat. “How long you’ve been into him.”

Phil can feel himself turning red, slowly, in the same way the sky overturns for sunset every evening. He reaches up to scratch idly at a sideburn, turning as if to glance down the ice where Sidney and Sheary tear down on the net and gracefully flick a backhander in past Murray’s shoulder, in just the spot Phil had been aiming. He has to purse his lips a little at that, but a smile still manages to sneak out. Sidney will be Sidney, and Sheary is improving every day.

“I don’t know, man,” he stalls, shifting in his skates. He’s staring into the lines without any real focus, but somehow he still manages to find Carl in the fray. He watches the way he interacts with Rust and Cullen, those closest to him, and the easy way he brightens for them. Phil tilts his head and mirrors Bonino’s lackadaisical pose against his stick, handle resting under his chin.

Carl reaches out and lightly pushes at Rust’s shoulder, and when the young guy says something fiery from the corner of his smirking lips Carl throws his head back to laugh. Cullen pretends to break them up, pushing at each of their chests from between them, but he can’t withhold a smile of his own. Carl’s cheeks are noticeably pink, even from the other side of the ice, and Phil feels his heart start to race.

“A while,” he admits, quietly. “Don’t know exactly when.”

“He’s liked you for _ages_ ,” Bonino blurts, as though he’s been waiting months holding those words in, inescapable and under oath to a linemate, the most sacred of vows. Phil knows it’s true, too, when he goes on to add, “Fuck it feels good to finally admit that.”

Phil flushes all the way down to his throat and doesn’t respond when Bonino notices. Rust makes his round over to them, mumbling something under his breath as Maatta swoops by to join him. They both practice their stick-handling just off to the side as Daley comes flying down the wing, smiling and tongue lolling out like a puppy with his head out the car window. Carl shifts closer to the front of the line and Phil ignores the sounds of chatter around him, the bang of pucks against boards and stick and crossbar.

“I wish he would’ve told me sooner,” he starts, watching now as Carl drives towards the net, passes to Fehr, and gently taps Murray’s shin pad with his stick after a beautiful save on the play. “I probably never would’ve even realized.”

“Are you stupid?” Bonino asks, and Phil casts a deadpan glance over his way. Bonino just shrugs, grin tilted smugly in his own favor. “Phil, my man, my pal. I told you. He was so fuckin’ obvious about it.”

“Then how did I miss it?” he asks, starting back towards the group when he notices Sullivan casting them suspicious glances, accompanied with distinctly disapproving eyebrows. Bonino follows his lead and they pick up Cole along the way, with a few rookies trailing several paces behind.

“You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Bonino says, right as Cole turns to him and says, “Because you’re an idiot.”

“Woah, woah!” Phil laughs, lifting his hands defensively.

“You deserve this abuse,” Cole admits with a shrug. “Hags has been pining for _months_. Did you think it was normal for a guy to touch you as much as he did? Does? Phil, _bro_.”

“He’s a physical guy!” Phil immediately says, and Cole and Bonino both burst into laughter as they rejoin the tail end of the rest of the guys. Geno and Tanger turn as they slide to a stop behind them, and even before he opens his mouth, Phil knows Tanger’s going to chirp him. It’s evident in the single risen eyebrow, the dangerous line of his smiling mouth, and the mischievous gleam in his amber eyes that he’s wanted to have fun with this for a while.

“Isn’t that kind of personal?” he asks, turning to Phil with a smile. “Or are we gonna learn the real perks of Hags’ physicality?”

“Keep it in the bedroom!” Geno laughs, and Phil thinks he’s truly fallen low in the chirp pool if Geno, infamous for being the most clingy and touchy with their _captain_ , is chirping him about potential PDA. Truly incredible.

“We haven’t gotten that far yet,” he says, a sorry excuse for a defense that he instantly regrets when he sees Tanger’s eyes light up with curiosity and something else he doesn’t think he’s prepared for, while Geno turns back to him with an expression shrouded in shock.

“No?” He asks, sounding strained. “You shy?”

Phil rolls his eyes when the guys laugh around him, especially when he hears the telltale wheeze that is Bonino’s hysterical laughter, the kind he usually only falls into when something truly hilarious happens. “Why do you automatically assume _I’m_ the shy one, eh?”

Tanger doesn’t even pause for a moment before saying, “Because Hags has wanted to fuck you for months.”

Forget his face and throat flushing with heat, his entire body suddenly feels ignited—flame to fuse in seconds. He wants to hide his face in his gloves but before he can even think to retreat, Flower sidles up to him and says, “He’s not shy about it.”

“He’s not shy about anything when it comes to you, actually,” Cole adds, smirking.

“What’s with all the gossip?” Phil demands, but he can’t help laughing. The entire situation is just so _ridiculous_ , and it’s not like he actually minds hearing that the man he’s been silently yearning after has sort of been doing the _same_. “You’d think this was high school or something, geez.”

“We’re just relieved to finally be able to talk about it. Out loud. Without receiving the death stare,” Bonino drawls, glancing across the ice to where Carl, Sheary, Sidney, and Kuni are all huddled around Sullivan and a whiteboard.

“Talking ‘bout what?” a new voice asks, a moment before Horny showers Cole and Bonino with ice shavings. He grins jauntily as they hiss and retort under their breath, before Bonino unthinkingly blurts, “About Carl wanting to fuck Phil.”

There’s a moment of strained silence as Tanger lifts a glove and starts laughing into it as quietly as he can, and Geno skates idly back over to loom over Sidney. Bonino freezes, one hand still wiping at some melting ice on his cheek, and Cole sighs audibly. Phil watches every emotion play over Horny’s face in rapid succession, mixtures of confusion and curiosity and realization, followed immediately by shock and betrayal and finally, the brightest and most expressive kind of joy.

“The _fuck_!” He shouts, loud enough for Sidney to twitch in their direction, and Geno to glance back over his shoulder at them. They don’t hold his attention for long, however, and he turns back to rest his chin on Sidney’s shoulder as they go over another drawn out play.

“Congratulations!” Horny pushes his way through the crowd and immediately attaches himself to Phil from skates to neck, spinning them slightly in circles. He hugs tightly, bowing Phil’s back a little even while he laughs heartily into his neck. He leans back and slaps him hard on the arm, grinning with too many teeth.

“I can’t wait to see everyone’s faces,” he laughs, eyes bright, and Tanger starts laughing even harder into his glove. He has to turn a little away though, because he can’t quite hold it in, and Flower grins beside him, nose scrunching. He skates a little closer to Horny as Phil just kind of gapes in the face of his enthusiasm.

“Horny,” Flower starts, playfully serious. He puts a hand on each of Horny’s shoulders, steadying him, and says, “Everyone knows.”

It’s almost comical how quickly Horny’s face falls, his joyous and smug expression leaving way for one of shocked dread.

“Everyone?” he asks, and his eyes jump to Phil, as though this is somehow _his_ fault.

“Everyone,” Cole agrees from over Flower’s shoulder, and Horny sucks air in between his teeth.

“The _fuck_ , guys!” He bites out, mouth gaping open with a slight tilt to his head. “How did everyone know but _me_?”

Before anyone can explain that easy solution to him, Phil glances up in time to see Carl heading towards them. He twists along the ice as though coming out of an elegant curve, his eyes not leaving Phil until he’s close enough to flick them over to Horny.

“Hey,” he greets, unquestionably aware of every smug smirk surrounding them. Phil, embarrassed and amused and just so undeniably full of joy despite himself, says, “Hey.”

“What’s going on?” Carl asks, and his eyes jump to Horny, his expression tinged almost suspiciously. Bonino reads his expressions almost as well as Phil does, and steps forward immediately to explain.

“Horny here was just congratulating Phil for catching your interest,” he says, and then with more purpose, “which is why he was hugging him.”

Phil makes the connection a second too late and almost groans out loud. He thinks of Carl looking over his shoulder and seeing Horny latched onto him, arms all the way around him, nose against his throat, and knows without having to ask that Carl had felt _jealous_.

Of Horny, who hugs literally anyone he can get his arms around. Penguins player or not.

“Come on,” he says when the realization finally settles in. Carl immediately glances from Horny up to Phil, expression suddenly and curiously blank, even as Bonino snorts out another laugh. “Really?”

“I told you,” Bonino cuts in before Carl can even say a word. “He’s so fucking obvious.”

This time Carl is the one to flush, though he hardly looks embarrassed. He keeps his eyes on Phil and it’s almost as though he’s measuring whether or not Phil is actually upset, which is hilarious.

“You kind of are,” he realizes aloud, his expression unquestionably fond. “Shit, Carl, you totally are.”

Carl’s smile is a slow and careful thing that Phil draws out word by word, until it’s _his_ again, and everyone else groans.

“I thought Sid and G were bad,” Cole grumbles, turning and heading towards the two in question.

“They are bad,” Flower joins in, as he and Tanger turn to follow suit.

Tanger says, “If you think about it, they’re worse. They’ve been dating for what, three years? And they’re still like this?”

“True,” Flower laughs, and a few paces behind them Sheary muffles a giggle of his own. Horny hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering between them before he starts skating for the tunnel, too. But not without grumbling a constant stream of disappointed and mouthy chatter about deception and betrayal under his breath the entire way, until Carl and Phil are the only two left at center ice. Everyone else either heads towards Sullivan or filters down the tunnel to unwind and prepare for post-practice video review.

Carl studies Phil’s expression for only a moment before he pushes forward a bit, until he can reach out and trail a thumb along the line of Phil’s lower lip.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, and his voice is so quiet it sends chills down Phil’s spine. He shakes his head, a little lost in the clarity of Carl’s remarkable blue eyes.

“No,” he admits, and it’s true, it’s the truest thing he knows. He’d never expected Carl to return his feelings, and he most certainly had never expected Carl to be the more affectionate and wanting of the two, either. It’s a heady feeling Phil never wants to feel absent of, and he holds on to it as tightly as he can. “I really like it. Kind of embarrassing to admit, eh? But I do.”

Carl’s smile is a victory Phil wins easily, and it warms him.

“Good,” he says, and he glances down to Phil’s lips, his long eyelashes nearly grazing the crests of his cheekbones. “Because I like it too.”

Usually Carl doesn’t get too close to him at practice. Their intimacy is reserved for moments outside of hockey, moments on Phil’s couch or in Carl’s car, for shadowed hallways after games and empty rooms after practice. Usually, Carl waits for them to be alone, as if he’s afraid that if he makes a move in front of people Phil might recoil.

Phil does not recoil; he pushes forward until their visors clatter together and their lips meet in a quick tangle, until Carl’s teeth come down just hard enough to force a surprised breath out of Phil’s lungs. Carl pulls away slowly, eyes closed for a moment longer than expected, as if he’s savoring the memory. Phil’s heart races under his skin, leaping and bounding, and when Carl opens his eyes he licks his lips, too.  
  
Phil swallows, and together they head slowly towards the locker-room, where a storm of vibrant and overjoyed chirps await them.

 

✧

 

Carl likes to spend time at Phil’s house.

He’s not entirely certain why, considering that Carl’s place is bigger and newer and has a lot more in it. The only part of Phil’s home that he has ever really needed is Stella.

Whatever the reason, Carl usually suggests spending time at Phil’s place and he doesn’t have an issue with that, so it becomes a constant place for them to hang out and make out. Phil used to think that he used his couch to its fullest potential when he and Stella would cuddle on it and watch marathons of “Say Yes to the Dress,” but as it turns out, Carl teaches him the real meaning of putting a couch to good use.

Phil isn’t very experienced with these kinds of things. He’s had girlfriends before and they’ve stayed at his place, but they weren’t anywhere near as touchy or as intense as Carl is. Or as persistent. Phil feels the change in the air the moment he opens the door to find Carl on his doorstep, that same small smile tucked up in the corner of his lips, that same heavy stare, so familiar.

“Hey,” he greets, and moves aside so Carl can step into the foyer. Stella comes racing into the room and immediately circles Carl’s legs until he reaches down to pet her behind the ears, cooing softly to her in Swedish as he always does. Phil leans against the door after he shuts it and just watches for a moment, the stillness and the peace of this moment, every time he sees if unfold. Carl in his home, petting his dog, and looking so comfortable, so familiar. Speaking his mother language in hushed tones, every line of him relaxed.

It’s jarring but comforting, and when Carl stands again and glances at Phil over his shoulder, there’s something in his eyes that makes Phil take a moment and really focus on his next breath. He pushes away from the door with renewed nerves and walks past Carl without looking at him, because he doesn’t know if he can do it without saying or doing something embarrassing.

“Come on,” he says, and he heads for their usual spot on the couch. They settle together with ease, Phil sitting comfortably on one side and Carl sitting just beside him, closer to Phil than the middle of the couch, even. He presses his leg against the length of Phil’s and rests his arm over the back of the couch, just above his shoulders, and they settle in to watch some TV. Stella settles in her own bed in the corner of the room and promptly falls asleep, as is her routine.

Carl had never seen “Say Yes to the Dress” until he met Phil, but his eyes have since been opened to the sometimes startlingly sincere show. A recent episode showcased a young woman in a wheelchair and a surprise arrival of her physical therapist of several years, just as she revealed the dress to her family. Phil is proud to say that Carl has been hooked ever since, though he still evades actually admitting that he cried.

He loses track of the time as they chatter quietly through a few episodes, with brief moments of silence during the more pivotal scenes. Phil’s hand rests palm-up on his leg, and Carl dangles his fingertips carefully over his until each pad of his fingers slides lightly over Phil’s. It’s an absentminded gesture, one that Phil has grown used to and unreservedly fond of. It’s one of many physical habits that Carl has; the more time Phil spends with him, the more he realizes that Carl just likes to _touch_.

To touch _him_.

They’re somewhere in the span of an episode they’ve both already seen when he feels Carl’s other hand tracing circles against his shoulder, somewhere between distracted and purposeful, until it starts to feel more like teasing than idle movement.

It makes Phil nervous, though he loathes admitting it. Intimacy had never really been an issue before, but something about Carl makes it feel nerve-wracking, like he can so easily fuck this up.

Carl is everything he’s ever admired, kind and gentle and passionate and intense, a beautiful combination of vibrancy that Phil could never quite manage to embody himself. Carl isn’t afraid to be himself, and he isn’t afraid to go after what he wants, and Phil loves that. Phil _wants_ that.

But it feels too easy to shatter the frail perfection of this thing between them, like he might do something and Carl will suddenly realize that Phil’s not all he’s cracked up to be. That he’s not what Carl thinks he is, not worth his time or his attention.

Phil wants to be someone Carl wants, and he knows he’s over-thinking it, but it’s difficult not to when he feels so bland in comparison. Carl is incredible on the ice and off, hard and gentle, kind and honest. He’s beautiful, too, which is just unfair in Phil’s opinion. The nicest thing Phil’s ever been called is homely, probably, and does that even count as nice at all?

It’s this wild stream of self-consciousness that has Phil getting up almost abruptly from the couch, startling Carl into blinking up at him, one hand still perched on his thigh where it’d been trailing over Phil’s wrist.

“You hungry?” He asks, and his voice is a little unsteady. “I’ll make something.”

He should’ve known that this was a giant red flag, especially for someone who knows him as well as Carl does. So it’s no surprise, really, when he turns away from the cupboard he’s just retrieved a cup from and finds Carl standing in the kitchen doorway, studying his expression carefully. He leans against the doorframe and lets Phil flounder around for a bit, just filling his glass with water and taking a few sips before turning to Carl to offer him a sip as well.

Carl gives a slow shake of his head, then asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Phil responds, probably too quickly. “Yeah, why?”

“Well first of all, you don’t cook,” Carl smiles, and Phil feels his cheeks fill with heat. “And I don’t know, you seem jittery.”

 _Nervous_. Phil wants to give him a pointed look, but instead he turns back to the counter and sets his glass down, unable to really look at Carl when all he can think about is how he pales in comparison, and how he probably doesn’t deserve someone so wonderful. He doesn’t know what Carl reads in the tense lines of his shoulders, his back, but he hears him cross the kitchen and stop right over his shoulder.

He expects the hand that turns his shoulder, gently as in all ways Carl behaves outside of hockey. He does not expect that hand to slide down his arm and curl around his wrist, and the light but insistent tug towards the front room that follows. He glances up to Carl’s eyes but he’s already turning away, leading where Phil can only follow. Phil expects him to lead them to the couch, and then for him to ask his questions. He doesn’t know how he’s going to answer, not even where he’s going to _start_ , but the slight panic he feels dissipates when they bypass the couch and the front room entirely.

When they head for the stairs, however, the panic returns tenfold, only this time it’s new, it’s different, and there’s no words to accompany it in his mind. Only the tightening of his gut in anticipation and dread, both, and the clench of his heart that so desperately _wants_.

They pause before the first step and Carl’s fingers slide away from Phil’s wrist, fingertips dragging over skin as though a part of him doesn’t want to let go at all. He turns to Phil with those effervescently dazzling eyes, and his expression is equal parts receptive and resolute.

“I haven’t seen your room yet,” he says, neither raising his voice nor whispering. “Show me.”

Phil has half a mind to negate that _strongly_ , because he doesn’t remember the last time he cleaned his room or if he has dirty laundry on the floor or if something, anything, is bizarrely out of place enough to remind Carl that he’s interested in a mess of a man, for however so long.

But when Phil looks back up into those eyes, so sure and unwavering in that deliberate persistence that’s so uniquely Carl’s, all he can do is say, “Yeah, sure.”

He takes the stairs slowly, hears the echo of Carl following his every footstep a beat later, and he works on remembering how to breathe normally. They wind the staircase and cross the hall in silence until they reach the door to Phil’s room. It’s ajar, as he always leaves it, and instead of hesitating for fear of what might be seen, he just pushes it open and steps inside to dispel the tension as soon as he can. Carl isn’t going to take no for an answer in this, so he’s going to see whatever Phil has scattered around his room, regardless. Might as well get it over and done with.

Carl pauses at the threshold for only a moment, bright eyes leaping from corner to crevice, surveying everything. Phil taps his fingertips against the door at his back and watches nervously as Carl walks further into his room, lifting his fingers to trail lightly over a dresser that’s probably covered in a fine layer of dust. He studies the pictures there, some of his family, a few more of his sister and him in different places, and one of Stella next to a slightly-blurred photo of the team on a beach in L.A. Carl is next to him in that picture, an arm slung over his shoulders and the other around Bonino’s, and he’s looking at Phil, not the camera.

“It’s not much, eh?” Phil laughs, so unbearably insecure. Carl glances over his shoulder at him and Phil can practically feel his gaze cut through him to find every hidden morsel of emotion that refuses to slip through his teeth. He struggles with keeping Carl’s gaze, for the first time in a long time, and finds himself flicking his eyes around his room instead.

There are clothes on the ground in the corner, but nothing embarrassing. A workout shirt and some socks, his discarded running shoes, and a banana peal sticking out of his gym bag in the opposite corner. His bed is made, which is unusual, but he’d felt good and energetic enough this morning to make it, for once.

He kind of regrets having made the bed at all, the longer he looks at it.

It looks so blatantly, heartbreakingly pristine—as if no one has ever been in it.

He glances back up to Carl with heat in his cheeks. He blinks when Carl turns and heads towards him in easy strides, watches the way his eyes never leave him, even as he reaches out and gently encourages Phil to slide away from the door. He does so, follows the subtle pressure of Carl’s fingertips against his arm without even hesitating. He glances at his socks and sees a hole he hadn’t noticed before, starting to form near his smallest toe.

When he glances back up at Carl, his eyes are brighter than Phil has ever seen them. They spark like fire, but reflect like sunshine off of ice sheets, in the most beautiful of golden blues. Phil opens his mouth to say something, anything, maybe even an excuse for the clothes on the floor or something silly that might make Carl laugh and forget that Phil is two hundred pounds of uncertainty, with holes in his socks.

He doesn’t manage to say anything at all, though. Instead, Carl strides towards him and doesn’t even hesitate before leaning into him, lips finding his in the dim light streaming through his almost-drawn shades. His back and his heels hit the wall and his hands come up in surprise to grasp the hem of Carl’s shirt, even as Carl changes the angle of their kiss, his breath loud in the silence of the room.

Carl’s hands wander and seek and _find_ , sliding first up the length of Phil’s neck to drag lightly over his nape, sending chills racing down his spine. Then they slide down over his chest, his stomach, and find the hem of his shirt with the same kind of precision and dexterity that Carl uses to stickhandle. Phil’s breath chokes off when Carl starts to lift his shirt, and it’s so ridiculous to be self-conscious of his weight now and in this moment when Carl has seen him undress in the locker-room hundreds of times.

But maybe it’s because it _is_ this moment, with Carl clearly wanting more than just a couch where they occasionally make out, and instead led Phil to his own room for _this_. He opens his mouth against Carl’s lips so as to say something, anything like a warning but he can’t organize the words in any way that Carl wouldn’t have already heard them.

 _I’m fit,_ Phil wants to say, _but not in the way you are. I’m big and I’ve got a lot of weight in a lot of places and—_

Carl’s tongue slides forward and traces the edge of Phil’s teeth and his hands press relentlessly under his shirt, pulling at the hem and inching it up and up and up. Phil can do nothing but get wrapped up in Carl’s haste, his yearning, until he feels his shirt sliding up and over his head, the only thing thus far that has been able to separate their lips.

But not for long, as Carl dives forward again and presses kisses from Phil’s lips to the edge of his jaw, pressing him back bodily against the wall. He’s lighter than Phil but he’s strong, he’s so strong and Phil can feel the strain in his muscles against him, like he’s holding back.

“Fuck,” Phil hisses, an accident he lets slip when Carl sucks against his throat, right over his pulse, and his left hand dances over the hem of his jeans. Phil’s been hard since Carl’s fingertips dragged lightly over his nape, down his chest and over his ribs, but it’s never been so apparent, not when Carl pushes even closer until there’s nothing between them but friction. Phil gasps when he feels Carl’s hips push further against his, pointedly, with shameless intent, and all he can feel is an erection to match his own, sliding against him with purpose.

“Yeah,” Carl breathes, his breath hot against Phil’s already flushed skin. He feels Carl’s hands trailing over his stomach and his nerves fall to the wayside, because Carl is _hard_ , this isn’t putting him off, Phil—

Phil isn’t putting him off.

Carl’s hands grasp his hips hard enough to bruise, his mouth still sucking along his throat, but he starts to pull until Phil follows him towards the bed. Phil’s heart races anew, his breathing already coming out heavily. Carl turns him until his back’s facing the bed and then he just pushes him along with every one of his steps, never once removing his lips from his neck, and then his collarbone.

He only backs off to press a hand to Phil’s shoulder, encouraging him to sit on the edge of the bed. Phil goes without question, blindly faithful, until Carl begins to kneel between his legs.

“Hey,” he says, and he reaches out and catches Carl’s jaw in his hand, his eyes wide and searching even as he tries to regain his breath. He can feel his hair standing up in strange places from Carl’s fingers running through it, and he knows his face and his throat are a patchwork of pinks and reds. Carl looks up at him with heavy eyes so clear and trusting that Phil actually feels faint, his cock twitching in his jeans.

“You don’t have to,” he starts, voice trembling, so unsure of what he even wants to say, or do. “If you don’t want to do this—”

“Phil,” Carl interrupts, and his eyebrows pull down in slight frustration. He lifts his hand to press against Phil’s on his jaw, holding him there, and turns his head to press a kiss to the center of his palm before looking back up at him. He says, “I want this. I want _everything_.”

Phil swallows heavily, blinking. “Everything?”

“Everything.” Carl promises, without hesitation. He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t even blink when he says, “I want you. I want your attention.”

This time, he takes the hand holding Phil’s wrist and he pulls it away from his face. He reaches over his shoulders and peels his shirt off, flinging it into the corner of the room. Phil watches the way his abs flex with every movement, freshly revealed, and his next inhale is entirely too shaky to not be noticeable. Carl pushes himself up on his knees, his hands coming to rest on Phil’s jaw, pulling him closer until his lips are at his ear, his teeth biting down on his earlobe.

His voice lowers, husky and sure, and he says, “Right now, I want your cock in my mouth.”

He doesn’t even give Phil time to react to that with anything more than the hissed _fuck_ that slips out of his mouth or the way his dick strains further against his jeans, not really, because then he leans even closer until his nose rubs against Phil’s cheek and he whispers, “And after that, I want to fuck you.”

Phil loses his breath, can’t say a word in response, can only reach down and palm at his own dick over his jeans because it’s hard and shockingly full just from Carl’s words, his _voice_. He doesn’t know if it’s the words themselves, the tone Carl speaks them in, or the sheer surprise of hearing such impropriety come from someone who’s usually so poised and impartial on the ice. Even when he gets frustrated or even downright pissed, he doesn’t usually call out obscenities in the usual way that guys do on the ice. That’s not to say that he doesn’t curse, but that he doesn’t usually direct it at anyone but the situation.

Now, though, every filthy word slips right into Phil’s ear and goes straight to his dick, the vibration of Carl’s voice against his skin already enough to make him shudder.

Carl pulls away without another word and makes quick work of Phil’s button and zipper, jerking against his jeans and boxers until they slide down his legs and off his feet, until Phil sits naked and hard and flushed before him, feeling more vulnerable and bare than he’s ever been for anyone. Carl hisses the moment he sees the thickness of him, as red as the skin of his throat and pushing up towards his navel.

Carl glances up and holds Phil’s gaze at the exact moment that he takes the head of Phil’s cock into his mouth, slowly at first, and then startlingly all at once. Phil sits as still as he possibly can and holds his breath as he feels the back of Carl’s throat for only a moment, lips around base, before he slides back up and off.

Carl’s breathless and palming at his dick over his jeans when he says, “Give me your hand,” and Phil offers his trembling fingers without shame. Carl feeds them into his hair, so thick and soft and easy to hold on to, and says, “Don’t let go.”

“Holy shit,” Phil grits when Carl wraps his lips around him once more, head bobbing and throat vibrating with an indulgent moan, as if he’s wanted this and can’t believe he’s _got_ it. Phil clutches his hair as tightly as he dares, only pulling ever so slightly when Carl’s lips inch closer to the base of him, before letting off a bit when Carl comes back for some air. He doesn’t seem uncertain about his technique, though he definitely doesn’t seem _used_ to it, and Phil wonders for only a fraction of a moment if Carl has ever done this before.

“So good,” he groans, deep and gritty from his throat when Carl takes him as deep as he can, for as long as he can. His lips slide back up and his tongue slides around the underside of the head of him, and every now and again when Phil holds his breath he feels Carl’s teeth slide carefully over his sensitive skin. It makes him mewl, pathetically, something between a whine and a moan, and it takes him a minute to realize that Carl _likes_ it.

He tries his best to let go of his shyness completely, especially when he realizes that Carl only drags his teeth carefully over Phil’s cock when he wants to _hear_ him. And he seems to want to hear him rather consistently.

Too soon he has to pull back on Carl’s hair, insistent where before he had only been gently encouraging. Carl’s lips slide off of the head of him with a quiet, obscene sound that makes Phil’s stomach turn, firework fuses lit in his stomach and ready to catch.

He gasps, “You’re fucking killing me.”

And Carl, well, he just smiles. He licks his lips where some precome has slid along his skin and Phil’s next breath shakes all the way through him.

With Phil’s hand still in his hair, Carl says, “Now you know how I’ve been feeling these past few months.”

“Like I’ve had your cock in my mouth? And you’re about to come? Really?”

Carl’s eyes swirl and shift against the light coming into the room, less of icy flames and more of dark pools, crashing against distant shores.

“Maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration,” he begins, and Phil cuts in with an amused but overly breathy, “eh?”

“But not entirely off.”

Phil closes his eyes and breathes carefully through his nose for a long moment, feeling Carl’s lips turn to the inside of his thigh, pressing kisses against his knee. His hands massage the skin there, making Phil jump. He opens his eyes and watches Carl swirl his tongue against a mark he’d just left behind, before glancing up at Phil almost playfully.

“Carl,” Phil breathes, reaching towards him, wanting him closer. “Take your fucking clothes off already.”

Carl doesn’t have to be told twice. He does pause after standing, just long enough to push decisively against Phil’s chest until he gets the idea and scrambles back against the bed, until no part of him hangs over the side. Carl undresses without any pretension, slipping his thin hips from his tight jeans with ease. He’s wearing gray boxer briefs and they leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, so much so that Phil can’t help but to reach down to palm his own cock, cheeks flaring with heat.

It’s the same sentiment, with a twist; he’s seen Carl naked before, but he’s never allowed himself to appreciate him openly, because they're teammates, linemates, and he wasn’t about to make it weird.

He lets himself appreciate every inch of Carl, now.

He peels the briefs from his legs and Phil loses every bit of his breath when he straightens and brings a hand up to give his cock a few cursory tugs. When Phil happens to glance up to gauge his expression, he finds him staring intently at Phil, eyes heavy and aroused. He doesn’t wait much longer, moving over the bed until every part of him is pressed to every part of Phil, until their cocks rub roughly together.

“Bedside drawer,” Phil breathes, voice trembling. Carl presses kisses to his chest, leaving little loving marks behind all the while before he even deigns to look for the bedside table. He leans over Phil and it causes his dick to rub against Phil’s navel, and both of them shudder.

Carl grabs the lube and makes quick work of slicking his own cock with it, watching Phil watch him with open admiration. Carl’s dick is long and fair and beautiful, just like the rest of him, and it makes Phil ridiculously fascinated. He hopes Carl can see every emotion he’s letting play over his features, hopes he can see just how aptly he has Phil’s attention, and how badly Phil wants to please him.

Phil thinks about his dreams and they all pale in comparison to this, to the reality of Carl’s hands and his eyes and his _mouth_. He slides a hand over Phil’s cock and works him for a few moments, without any real rhythm. It’s almost as though he’s touching just to touch, and when Phil looks back up to his face he finds Carl staring at his cock, and his hand wrapped around it. His mouth slips open ever so slightly, his breaths coming out labored, and it’s absolutely the hottest thing that Phil has ever seen.

“Carl,” he begs, because if he keeps staring at Phil’s cock in his hand with that look, licking his lips all the while, then Phil is going to be spent far quicker than he’d like. Now that he’s gotten this far and his insecurities have mostly dissipated, he can admit to himself that what he wants is to come on Carl’s cock, without a single finger on his own.

“You gonna fuck me?” He asks, a little unsteady. He swallows when Carl’s piercing eyes jump back to his, bright and provocative.

“Please,” he begs, switching gears. “ _Please_ fuck me.”

“Shit,” Carl breathes, and his tongue comes out to slowly trace the edge of his teeth as he stares at Phil writhing against his sheets for just a moment longer. “I’m going to. Be patient.”

“Patient?” Phil wants to laugh, or maybe to cry, or maybe both. He isn’t sure—all he knows is that he’s so full and yet at the same time he feels so empty, waiting for Carl’s fingers and his cock.

He doesn’t have to wait long. He feels Carl spread his legs, wider than he really needs to, but from the look in his eyes it’s personal preference. Phil throws an arm over his eyes because even if this is everything he could’ve and has ever dreamt, it’s still _embarrassing_. He hears the cap of the lube again and then he feels Carl’s finger rubbing carefully against him, so meticulous and gentle.

He pushes in slowly, attentively, and Phil’s hips nearly come off the bed. Carl works him with one finger for only a few moments before pushing another in, perhaps a little quicker than Phil is used to. The stretch of it, though, is something that makes Phil yearn for a third finger before he’s really even ready for it, either.

He finds in the next few moments that Carl is definitely physically expressive, mostly with him, but that he’s also a little cruel when it comes to teasing. He drags the sensations out and withholds another finger when Phil begs for it, feels like he _needs_ it, and waits for Carl to finish stroking with only two. He rests his left hand on Phil’s hip, the crease of his groin, and his fingers press hard enough to bruise. Phil loves the sharpness of it, and the way it distracts him from Carl finally, _finally_ slipping that third finger in. He does so with a twist, vicious in its prevalence of sensation, and this time, Phil’s hips do rise from the bed.

Carl pushes his hips back down, clucking his tongue, eyes gleaming with pleasure and with teasing when Phil looks down at him. He groans, first because of that teasing, and then because Carl curls all three of his fingers inside of him and _thrusts_ , just barely managing to slide against that most sensitive part of him. He keens for it, begs for him to repeat the gesture.

Instead, he feels Carl carefully remove his fingers until Phil is left feeling that same astounding contrast of too full and too empty, only moments before Carl lines their hips up. He pushes forward until the head of his cock presses against Phil, and he says, “Okay?”

Phil flashes back to his dream and the polite insistency in Carl’s voice and he thinks he’s known him, truly known him, for so much longer than either of them really knew. Phil nods even as Carl pushes in, slowly at first with a muted groan, breathless until his hips press flush against Phil’s. He rests against Phil’s chest and bends down to steal his breath with a kiss, deep and nearly frantic as he starts to move.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Phil grits, and it’s the perfect kind of fullness that he’s been begging for, that he’s been _dreaming_ of. He flexes his hips to meet every thrust, and Carl is a machine, barely hesitating between each sharp movement. He groans low and deep against Phil’s lips when Phil’s muscles tighten involuntarily, a fluke of sensation overload, and Carl starts to chatter almost absentmindedly.

He says, “Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, wanted you for so long, can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

Phil moans loud enough that he should probably be embarrassed, but all he can focus on is the sharp snap of Carl’s hips, the rough slide of his cock in his ass, and the brazen way that Carl opens his feelings up to him in this most intimate of moments. It’s so touching that Phil can only think to reciprocate, though far less eloquently, and with far more embarrassment. He fists the comforter in his hand and feels his stomach turn and clench when he hears the rhythmic squeak of the bed frame jarring against the wall, and the lurid sounds coming from where Carl’s body joins his.

“I’ve wanted you, _fuck_ ,” Phil starts, unable to even finish one sentiment. At his words, Carl groans deep in his throat and picks his pace up even more, unbearably thorough in even this, especially this. “I’ve wanted you for _so long_. Wanted you to want me. Wanted your cock.”

“Jesus, Phil,” Carl bites out through gritted teeth, turning them instead to nibble lightly against the underside of Phil’s upturned jaw.

And it’s as though every one of Phil’s secrets slips right through his teeth, the floodgates opened.

“I dream about you,” he admits, and for the first time Carl’s hips stutter, breaking pace, rhythm shattered while he seats himself fully inside of Phil. “About the things I want to do to you, and—”

Carl pauses, and for a moment all there is between them are their panting breaths, and the sudden stillness of Carl’s hips. Carl’s shoulders and flanks shake, and when he speaks next the quiver in his voice is less from exertion and more from arousal.

“And?” He asks, licking his lips. His hair sticks wetly to the nape of his neck, where sweat has already begun to form and drip. Phil wants desperately to run his hands through it, to feel the exertion that Carl has used up in order to fuck into him. “What else do you dream about me, Phil?

Phil swallows, hands coming to grip at Carl’s shoulder blades. He wraps his legs around his hips and pulls him in, wanting him closer, closer, _closer_. This time, it’s Phil who stares up unblinkingly at Carl, wanting if only for this instant to be confident enough to say something true, even if it’s going to lay him even more bare than before.

So he doesn’t waver when he says, “Sometimes I dream of your eyes, how you’re always staring at me. Or of your mouth. Your hips.”

“Mostly, though,” he says, swallowing. “Mostly I dream of you fucking me. Of your cock inside me. Of you telling me that it’s _good_.”

Carl is frozen for a long moment, bright eyes wide and lips parted in shock. Phil takes that shock in and seals it away for safe keeping, for later perusal. It makes him smile a little, to have caught Carl so off guard. But then Carl rears back and puts both of his hands on Phil’s hips, and he _moves_.

He moves in a way that he hasn’t yet before, and Phil’s eyes squeeze shut around the pressure building in his stomach, in his cock. The insistent rub of Carl’s cock against him, inside of him, and the little groans that Carl makes whenever Phil moves just right to go along with his rhythm.

Carl’s rhythm becomes a little disjointed, signaling the coming of his orgasm, and Phil nearly reaches for his own cock, wanting to join him but also wanting to come just from Carl’s cock alone. He decides that it’ll be okay to come afterwards, maybe from Carl’s mouth this first time, and build up to that original fantasy.

That is until Carl opens his eyes and catches Phil’s gaze and says, “You’re _mine_. You know that, right?”

And before this moment, Phil had no idea that he was into this almost gentle kind of possessiveness, more loving than controlling, until the tether in his stomach unwinds like a fuse set to flame.

“Carl, _fuck_ ,” he moans, fingers gripping the sheets hard enough to tear as his orgasm rolls through him, come spurting up and over his stomach. Carl’s fingers tighten on his hips and his pace picks up one last time, heated and passionate and everything Phil could’ve ever imagined.

“That’s right,” he says, quiet as a dream. “I’ll give everything to you, everything you want.”

And it sounds like a promise, like Carl wants to reassure Phil that he’s made the right choice by being with him, by letting him get this close. Phil watches Carl’s hips stutter, watches him throw his head back with one last powerful push until his hips are seated completely against Phil’s, and he comes as deep inside of him as he can. The warmth moves through him and brings cool chills up along his arms, his spine, before Carl collapses over him.

He rests his head against Phil’s rapidly beating heart, his right hand coming up to lazily trail over Phil’s nipple. He flinches at the contact, still incredibly sensitive, and Carl musters up a quiet laugh.

Phil snorts a little, and adds breathlessly, “You’re laying in my come, ya know?”

“I know,” Carl agrees, and damned if that doesn’t make Phil’s cock twitch between them, if only slightly. He’s in no way ready for another round, not just yet, but the realization that perfect and tender Carl Hagelin likes it a little dirty has Phil feeling a little more than shaken.

“You’re a little possessive,” Phil adds randomly a moment later, when he has a slight handle on his breathing; and then sort of wishes he hadn’t. He doesn’t want Carl to be self-conscious about it; he was just verbalizing an observation. But really, he should’ve known better than to think that Carl would be self-conscious about much of anything, let alone _that._

Without moving his head from Phil’s chest, his finger still tracing lazy circles over Phil’s skin, Carl asks, “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Phil admits in a whisper, a soft smile rising. “I’m fuckin’ into it.”

Carl laughs, soft as a breeze blowing over Phil’s heated skin. “Okay. Good.”

They lie there for several long moments, just catching their breath, letting their hearts settle down. Carl traces circles against Phil’s ribs, and Phil brings a hand up to rub idly over Carl’s back, his fingertips sliding just barely into the damp hair at Carl’s nape. He feels almost radiant in the aftermath; so happy he can’t stop smiling.

Eventually, Carl turns his head a bit and rests his chin on his hand, right over Phil’s sternum. He blinks, still lying between Phil’s legs, still _inside_ of him, and studies Phil’s expression with open affection.

He says, “So, are you going to stop doubting now?”

Phil blinks, confused. His brows purse and he says, “Doubting what?”

Carl doesn’t roll his eyes, though it’s a close thing. He just does what he always does: says something true and honest without an ounce of timidity or uncertainty.

“That I want you.”

Phil feels electric, his heart hot-wired to Carl’s every honest assertion about his feelings, and Phil’s, too. He barely even has to think about it, which says enough all on it’s own.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I think I can work on that, yeah.”

“Good, I’m glad,” Carl says, after studying his expression and gauging his sincerity. “But if you need me to keep proving it to you, I’m one hundred percent on board for that, too.”

And Phil laughs, loud enough to jostle Carl on his chest, his eyes squinting shut for a moment.

“Oh,” he breathes when his laughter dies down a bit. “Oh, I think I’d like that.”

Carl grins, slow and sure and in that way that brightens up his entire expression; the smile he saves for Phil. He pulls out with a little carelessness before crawling up Phil’s body until he can press a kiss to his chin, and then his lips, once, then twice, before he pulls back to look on at Phil’s smiling face.

“I’d like that too,” Carl says, and his smile turns devious, expectant.

Intent.

“I’d like that right now,” he says, and Phil’s heart starts to race once more, in just the way it always does when Carl centers his attention entirely on Phil. He leans down and presses a kiss to Phil’s lips, slow and gentle, lingering. “And tomorrow. And after our game on Friday. And always, actually.”

Phil lifts a hand to run his fingers through Carl’s hair, feeling the slick softness of it and the way the ends curl around his fingers. He laughs, a one-two bubble of joy and revelation, before leaning forward to press a kiss to Carl’s forehead.

With his lips still pressed against Carl’s skin, heated and flushed from exertion and pleasure both, Phil agrees.

“Always, eh?” Carl glances down at him with all the focused intent in the world, and love shines in his eyes clear as day. Phil hopes he can see the same, reflected as clearly in pale comparison in the amber of his own eyes, and says, “Sounds fucking great to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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